


Last Night

by AStupidUserName420



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9807836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStupidUserName420/pseuds/AStupidUserName420
Summary: Maximilien Robespierre doesn’t drink. Not at parties, not at birthdays, not at weddings or funerals or anything else. As long as Camille has known him, Maxime has politely declined every alcoholic beverage ever offered to him.So why is he drunk tonight?(A/N: The Author is Not Sorry. Well, maybe a little.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N1: I’m not sorry.  
> A/N2: I lied I am Sorry. Also, hi. Also wow, this is terrible even for me. I am sorry to everyone involved, especially Camille Desmoulins and Maximilien Robespierre. I’m also sorry for being a hack writer, depending on cliches and Freudian psychology but I won’t stop anytime soon.  
> Also NOT BETA’d, be warned.  
> A/N3: Also I know how completely inaccurate it would be for a college student in France not have ever drank, seeing as it’s a cultural cornerstone. I know, I am aware. We’re going to ignore this.

Camille has returned from getting the second round of drinks, just glancing up and over to where Georges is, when he see him quickly drawing his hand back from Maxime’s drink (The god awful mix of concentrated cranberry juice and ginger ale).

“What are you doing?”

“You’re back, excellent, I’ve nearly finished with mine, already.” Camille can hardly hear him over the pounding bass. Danton’s smile glints in the strobe lights of the dim club.

“No Georges, what were you doing-” Camille starts asking but Georges stands up and waves at the door.

“Marat! Over here!” His voice is like the bellow of a bull and several club goers turned around in drunken bemusement, wondering where the fire is.

Third year med student Jean-Paul Marat goes through the crush of people like a storm over the atlantic, one that capsized boats and puts them at the bottom of the ocean; hardly noticing them. So what if Georges Danton could probably pick him up one handed?

Marat has _spirit_.

Behind him is Georges on-again, off-again girl friend Gabrielle, who is talking with dark eyed Simmone, and Camille runs a hand through his hair, _Lucile_.

There’s so much commotion, people sitting down and the music blaring and Camille is so distracted when Lucile smiles at him that it slips his mind to keep badgering Danton on what exactly he was doing to Maxime’s drink.

By the time Max comes back to the table, the group is in deep discussion, fairly well split on the economic reform, Marat immediately recruiting Max to his side of the argument. Camille just nods distractedly when Maxime wryly toasts him with his cranberry-ginger ale, taking a small sip. One eyebrow cocks slightly and he tilts his head, looking at his drink speculatively.  

“Camille. Is this mine?”

Camille nods again. Max shrugs, takes another sip and the debate goes on.

XXXXXXX

They’ve long abandoned the table, going to one of the quieter rooms in the club. Camille’s head is spinning slightly. It’s dark and far away the bass is still making his ear drums throb. Lucile is crushed into his side, soft lips moving over his jaw bone. Other couples are doing the same thing in the dim room and Camille tips his head back, letting her get more access to his neck.

His eyes are closed and he loosely grips her waist.

“Camille?”

There is a far off voice. Camille tenses slightly, and groans when Lucile lifts her mouth off him. He doesn’t want to return to reality yet. He regrets opening his eyes even more when he see Philippe Le Bas standing in front of the table, looking bemused. He doesn't have anything against Philippe, _per-se_ , but usually where Le Bas is, Saint-Just isn’t far behind.

“Hello Philippe. What are you doing here?” Occasionally Camille can bring himself to be ungraciously blunt.

He shifts slightly, eyes trailing to the floor. “When you say here, do you mean here in the room or here in the club?”

“What does it matter?” Lucile asks, sounding amused. Camille is betrayed. Her interest is straying.

“I mean, it’s the principle of the thing-”

“Dear lord, _here in the room_ , Le Bas,” Camille snaps.

“No need to get prickly. I just thought you should know that Max is on the table.”

This sentence means nothing to Camille, that is how little it makes sense.

“Excuse me?” He spits out.

“Max is drunk and on the table. He’s drawing a crowd. I thought you should know.”

He laughs. “Maxime doesn’t drink.”

Philippe shrugs. “Well he’s drunk.”

Camille glares. “Maxime. Doesn’t. Drink.”

Philippe is staring at him, eyebrows creeping up his face. “Regardless the fact is that he’s either drunk or high, or has lost his mind, and now he’s on the table.”

“Maybe we should go and check that he’s alright Camille.” Lucile suggests gently, standing up. He groans but gets up anyway, sure he’s being had on by Georges when a sudden image flashes across his mind.

_Georges hand over Max’s ginger ale._

Camille goes from standing perfectly still to hurtling over the low table, through the beaded curtain doorway, down the stairs back onto the crowded dance floor and yep, that is Maximilien, and he is on the table.

Camille can only stand and try to jerk his reality back upright in the face of the revelation.

But...But… Max doesn’t drink! His whole mind protests.   

It’s a long standing standard: Maximilien Robespierre doesn’t drink. Not at parties, not at birthdays, not at weddings or funerals or anything else. As long as Camille has known him, Maxime has politely declined every alcoholic beverage ever offered to him.

Yet Camille watches Max dancing on the table, his eyes fever bright and face flushing. There’s a small group of other young adults staring up at him, cheering him on. Camille fights his way through the crowd. He’s distantly aware that Lucile has joined him and shes gripping his wrist as he gets to the table. Usually it would make his whole face go warm but right now he’s distracted.

Because isn’t this just typical.

Antoine Fucking Saint-Just is smirking up at Maxime, lights flashing off his earrings. He’s offering his hand to him, but Max just laughs and dances away, coming close to falling off the edge of the table before Saint-Just puts his hand on back of Max’s leg, steading him.

“Enjoying yourself?” Camille shouts over the music, pushing through the crowd to stand next to the table. The smile slips off Saint-Just’s face so fast it’s like it was never there.

“Camille! Antoine is here, Camille!” Maxime is his oldest, dearest friend. They’ve been through about 60% of their lives together. And this is the first time Camille has ever heard Max’s voice sound so...free. Unfettered, his normally wheedling, nearly nasally voice takes on a more liquid quality, like a small stream skipping over smooth stones. Nevertheless it grates over Camille’s ears.  

“So I’ve seen,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Max sits down on the table, legs dangling and grabs one of the abandoned drinks, intending to toss it back. Gently, Saint-Just wrestles it from his grip. Max looks confused, auburn curls flopping over his face while he studies his suddenly empty hand.  

Camille takes his momentary distraction to glare furiously at Saint-Just.

“What are you doing here?”

Saint-Just glares right back, blue eyes frosty. “I’ve been told that anyone can go into a club.”

Camille laughs sarcastically. “And you just happen to go into the one club where we are? I find that distinctly unlikely.”

Saint-Just sneers. “Don’t flatter yourself, Desmoulins.”

They’ve been joined by Le Bas, who slides over to Saint-Just, the little toad. Max is staring between them, green eyes hazy.

“Wait. Are we fighting?” He asks. Camille and Saint-Just are still locked in their Staring Contest Of Death and don’t answer. With surprising ferocity, Max hits the table with an open palm.

“Don’t fight! Don’t fight! Don’t fight!” He chants, sing-songy.

Camille celebrates internally when Saint-Just’s expression slips and his lips tip up ever so slightly, eyes trailing over to Max, who lets out an uncharacteristic cheer.

“HaHA! I knew you wouldn’t be mad!”

Next to him, Lucile giggles slightly. “Oh wow. He is _plastered_. We should be filming this.”

“Yes, I thought Maxime doesn’t drink?” Saint-Just asks to the room at large, passive aggressive bastard.

“He doesn’t,” Camille grits out. He touches the Lucile’s hand and leans close to whisper in her ear. “Watch him for a moment, please? I need to go find Georges and get my keys so I can drive Max home.” As he leans back Lucile pecks his cheek.

“You’re sweet,” She mutters back. Then louder: “Max, lets go get you some water, alright?”

XXXXXXX

Camille finds Georges smoking outside, his hand nearly down Gabrielle's flowery blouse.

“What did you put in Max’s drink?”

“Nothing bad,” Georges assures him.

“What. Did. You. Put. In Max’s. Drink.”

“151 vodka. He can handle it.”

Camille has the suicidal urge to hit him for a moment, despite the fact Georges has about fifty pounds and four years wrestling experience on him and could probably snap Camille in half.

“He doesn’t drink!” Camille shouts instead.

“Look, even Max needs to pull the stick out of his ass. I just helped start the process.”

Camille clenches his fists and in one angry breath blurts out, “No Georges, he doesn’t drink because his father was a fucking alcoholic!”

He wishes he could snatch the words back from the air, even as a frisson of satisfaction goes up his spine, watching George's eyes widen and hear his breath get sucked in, in shock.

Gabrielle makes a soft noise and raises her hand to her mouth. “Oh no, that’s terrible.”

Georges drops the butt of his cigarette. “I’m sorry Camille, I didn’t know.”

Camille knows he’s sincere, but doesn’t want to show he accepts the apology for now. He holds out his hand instead.

“I need my keys to get him home.”

“Ah.” Georges colors slightly in the yellow streetlight. “I don’t have them.”

“Excuse me? You’re the designated driver. I gave you my keys.”

“Yes, and I gave them to Marat.”

Camille pauses as the full implications sink in.

“Why?”

Georges shrugs. “Because I wanted to have another beer, so I gave him the honorable title of Designated Driver.”

“Georges he’s probably going to have it impounded by the end of the night.”

“I’ll pay for your ticket.”

With a sound of the most extreme exasperation Camille throws his hands into the air, turns on his heel and marches back into the club, heedless of the bouncer, who smirks.

“Long night?”

Camille growls.

“You’ve no idea.”

XXXXXXX

He has a minor heart attack when he goes back to the table and finds it abandoned by his friends and allies.

For a frantic fifteen minutes he scours the club, possibilities racing in his head. Lucile finds him, explaining that Le Bas disappeared in one direction and Saint-Just with Max, went in the other.

Le Bas is at the bar, having done his job for the night. He smirks slightly when he says he has no idea where Antoine and Maxime are. With a cheeky smile he suggests they check the room he’d found Camille and Lucile in.  

Camille hasn’t wanted to fight so many people since he was fourteen and in boarding school.

It’s no secret that Antoine Saint-Just has a crush on Maximilien Robespierre. The only one who doesn’t seem aware is Max. Camille had desperately hoped to keep it that way.   

Its another ten minutes before they find them.         

He doesn’t know how they ended up in the back of the club, the grimy alley is usually the kind of place Max would avoid at all cost. Out of habit Camille decides to assume it was Saint-Just.

When he and Lucile step out onto the concrete steps Camille looks around the dimly lit place.

Lucile taps on his shoulder and points to a shadowed place next to the dumpsters. The two are half hidden, and pressed very closely together. It doesn’t require much imagination to figure out what they’re doing.

Camille would probably usually think the tender way Saint-Just is holding Max to him and the way Max is oblivious to the rest of the world as he grips the back of Saint-Just’s neck terribly romantic under other circumstances.

However this is Camille’s best friend and an arrogant douche-bag. So instead he whistles loudly, the sound piercing.    

The other two spring apart, Max’s arms around Saint-Just’s shoulders, and Saint-Just’s hands on Max’s waist.

Camille glares at Saint-Just, who doesn’t even have the common decency to look embarrassed, just vaughey debauched. Max is flushed and his glasses are starting to fog. He also ignores Lucille’s quiet snort.

“Come on Max, let’s get you home,” he addresses his friend who looks like he’s going to protest for a moment before Saint-Just removes his arm from his shoulders. Then he nods unsteadily. Much to Camille’s undying horror, he turns around and kisses Saint-Just, right on the lips.

“I have to go. Bye,” Max mutters.

“I’ll text you. We should talk,” Saint-Just says quietly. The two share a soppy smile for a moment before Camille starts coughing pointedly. Saint-Just glares at him and Camille just glares right back.  

“We need to go, Maxime.” He gently takes his arm and starts steering Max away down the alley-way.

XXXXXXX

Camille would be entertained if this was Marat or Georges. Maybe even Brissot. However since it is Maxime and Camille is in charge of getting him back to his host family, it’s not nearly as amusing as other people’s drunken stumblings.

Usually their situations are reversed.

The upside is that Max seems to be happy drunk.

“Camille, look! Pigeons!” He eagerly stumbles his way towards the birds, who scatter. The lights from the street lamps are reflected in his glasses as he spins around, watching.

“Please don’t make yourself dizzy, I don’t really want you to trip and smash your face,” Camille mumbles. Maxime practically skips his way back to him and matches his pace.

“Camille, Camille, can I tell you something?” Max whispers. Or he seems to try to, but it comes out as half shouted.

“You know you can Max, anything,” Camille rubs his ear, still ringing slightly.

“I like, uhm, I like,” the words trailed off into mumbling. Camille’s heart sinks.

“I couldn’t hear you Max, sorry?”

The other boy suddenly looks startlingly sober, while staring down at his feet.

“I said, I like Antoine.”

The silence stretched in between them before Camille sighed.

“I know.”

Max looks up and stumbles over his own feet, forcing Camille to grab his arm to prevent him from going down to the pavement.  

“You don’t need to be that stunned. You might be a hard read for other people but I’ve known you for ten years, Maximilien,” Camille says, quietly.

“But you hate Antoine!”

Camille winces, wishing _he_ was a harder read. “Well, you have to admit he’s an arrogant intellectual lightweight who uses his looks to succeed in life,” he says. Max looks injured on his beaus behalf, blinking dolefully.

“He’s not! You’ve only been judging him on his writing style, which can be, um, eccentric but he’s very logical and his speaking,” Max sighs, eyes going unfocused. “His speaking is amazing. The flow of arguments and how concisely they are all put together.”

Camille rolls his eyes. “Sure, but his content can be absolutely brutal.”

“I know you don’t agree with many of his stances,” Maxime says resignedly.

They walk in silence for a moment. They’re getting close to the Duplay’s. Camille checks his phone and winces. It’s nearly one am and he just hopes that no one stayed up to wait for Max. When they get to the outside staircase that leads up to Max’s room Camille sighs. “Maxime, if Antoine _fucking_ Saint-Just makes you happy, then I’d just be a terrible friend for standing in your way.” Max smiles at him, all provincial boy-next-door charm.

“Thank you, Camille. That means a lot to me.”

Max makes to walk up the stairs before Camille grabs him and hugs him tightly.

“Do yourself a favor and grab a glass of water and aspirin for tomorrow morning,” he whispers into his ear. Max nods against his shoulder.

“Good night, Camille.”

He lets go and watches him stumble up the stairs. After the door closes, he takes out his phone.

**TO: Saint-Just**

@1134pm: If you hurt him, I will RUIN you.

Camille turns around and starts walking back, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to find his car after whatever Marat has ended up doing with it. His phone beeps.

**FROM: Saint-Just**

@1137pm: Good To Know. However I Would NeVer Hurt Him.

Camille rolls his eyes.

**TO: Saint-Just**

@1137pm: Fix your capitalization. Ass.      

XXXXXX

The next morning Camille rolls over in bed, tragically alone. However, he’s not hungover and despite having to stay out until four to get to his car back from Marat, he doesn’t feel too bad. His phone beeps and Camille fumbles around the bedside loaded with note pads and books for it.

**FROM: Lucile**

@500am: Hey, hope you got home okay. Thanks for dropping me off. Wanna do lunch today?

**FROM: Saint-Just**

@223am: Thank You For Getting Maxime Home.

**(4) FROM: Maxime**

@700am: Camile wht happned last night?

@734am: Why do I have messge from Danton that says Whoops Sorry

@856am: Why do I have a message from Saint-Just inviting me for coffee?

@900am: Camille. What did I do Last Night?     

Camille darts off a few quick messages: a positive smiley face to Lucile, a cordial ‘No problem’ to Saint-Just, and a ‘Hey, how do you feel?’ to Maxime.

**FROM: Maxime**

@916am: Terrible. What happened last night?

**TO: Maxime**

@916am: Danton spiked your drink.

**FROM: Maxime**

@920am: … Oh.

**TO: Maxime**

@920am: He didn’t know, Max.

**FROM: Maxime**

@921am: That’s not a very good reason to do it, regardless.

**FROM: Maxime**

@921am: At least that explains why I got one from him, anyway. Do you know why Saint-Just texted me?

**TO: Maxime**

@922am: You made out with him.

**TO: Maxime**

@925am: Max? Still there?

**TO: Maxime**

@930am: Maximilien??

**FROM: Maxime**

@934am: I’m going to meet him this afternoon for coffee. He told me you walked me home. Thank you, Camille.

**TO: Maxime**

@935am: Anytime.

**TO: Maxime**

@935am: Use a condom.       

-FIN.    

 


End file.
